


Long Time Walking

by Kirbyfest



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Pretender
Genre: Original Character(s), Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:06:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirbyfest/pseuds/Kirbyfest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd thought he was dead. Everybody else was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time Walking

Parker hears the name for the first time exactly two months after one-tenth of the world's population is slaughtered like cattle.

It's thirteen days more before Parker realizes she's running into that name again and again. New refugees are bringing it up. Not always to Parker, but she overhears them talking, and though there's little time for much of anything besides survival it settles somewhere in the back of her mind.

The morning after they lose four to a sphere, she sees the name spray-painted, jagged and red, on a crumbling bridge underpass somewhere in southern Missouri.

Martha Jones.

They're only there for a few minutes, long enough to regroup and bandage the wounded and pretend not to think about the dead. Sara, trying to distract herself from the pain, nods her head towards the words. "They say she has a gun, that one. A gun that can kill the Master."

Parker can't meet Sara's dark eyes, filled with pointless hope, so she concentrates on wrapping the bandage even more precisely on the girl's arm, wishing there was antiseptic under the dirty cloth. "If anyone had a gun like that, they'd have used it. Or he would have killed her by now."

Martha Jones. There is no fucking Martha Jones with a magic gun, coming to save the world. It has been two months and twenty-nine days, and no one's going to save them.

* * *

When his voice rumbles down her spine, it wakes her out of a dead sleep and for a moment Parker thinks it's just another dream.

"I'm just trying to find somewhere to crash. I have food. And water."

She knows his voice, would know it anywhere, avalanche or hurricane or apocalypse. For a moment everything goes white. Breathing stops, and it takes her a moment to start again. She leans up on one elbow and pushes her hair out of her face, looks across the half-collapsed hangar. Jarod is at the entryway, Rodolfo's knife at his throat, Tim's gun to his chest.

It has been at least six months since she's seen him. It has been four months and six days since everything changed. And when his eyes meet hers across the dimly lit space, she sees: he didn't know she was here. He didn't know she was alive.

As the realization slips into place, his face changes, her breath catches. He takes a half-step towards her, grimaces as the knife presses deeper into his skin.

"He's OK." Tim looks at Parker, then back at Jarod. The gun doesn't move. "I know him. From before." Parker pushes herself to a sitting position, trying not to wince. "We could probably use his help."

Rodolfo rubs the flat of his knife lightly along Jarod's throat, and Parker presses her lips shut, not saying anything, recognizing the gleam in Jarod's eyes, willing him to stay still.

"What's he got to offer?" Rodolfo's voice is silky soft.

"He's got medical training, among other things."

"He's a doctor?"

"Close enough." Playing that card is the best way to get Jarod in, safely. Parker trusts Rodolfo, but only a little, even though she's been traveling with him since nearly the beginning.

The knife lowers, the gun goes back into Tim's holster, and Jarod is allowed in.

New refugees who show up in the middle of the night don't get to go straight into the group, especially when they arrive with medical training and food. Parker lets Tim handle things. She settles back into her bedroll, watching as they go through the procedures that have become standard. He's carefully searched, questioned. Jarod cooperates, turns out his pockets, hands over hard-won supplies without objection. He does not look at her.

She falls asleep watching him.

* * *

That first morning, they're woken before sunrise, and they end up stuck hiding in the hangar while a group of spheres oversees a work crew nearby. The workers are collecting metal and wood from nearby buildings in worse shape than the hangar. This means they can't stay here past today. If they're lucky, the work crew won't start salvaging this building today. If they're not lucky, they're all dead.

There's no talking that day, not even in whispers, and they hardly move for fourteen hours. The Toclafane have excellent hearing.

Jarod spends the day sitting with his back against the wall next to Parker, his eyes closed most of the time (sleeping? meditating?). Midday, she feels a light touch on her leg, and looks down to see a square of chocolate there. It's chalky-edged, dry on her tongue at first, but it melts into sweetness more intense than she's tasted in a long, long time.

That night, when the spheres and the crew leave, they emerge from hiding, cramped and dehydrated and cold. Sara portions out water, Emil does the same with their tiny store of food, and for a few minutes they let themselves breathe.

Jarod's standing at the front of the hangar, looking out, and Parker limps over to him.

"Look." Jarod points out, to the left. A bit of moonlight clearly illuminates bodies crumpled there, next to the base of what's left of one of the buildings where the work crew had been salvaging materials that day. "They don't even let us bury our dead."

Parker is quiet, and eventually Jarod turns, looking down at her.

"I thought you were dead."

She doesn't look at him, doesn't meet his eyes. "I figured you were. Everybody else is."

He watches her for a moment, then turns back, his shoulder touching hers. They face the landscape, the bodies for a moment before going back to the group and packing up. Conversation is a luxury, movement is a necessity, and they have so little time.

* * *

They make good time that night, and when they finally stop at the edge of a small wooded area late the next morning, everyone's exhausted. The basic camp sets up quickly-- camo tents in a tight perimeter, with as much added natural cover as they can find-- and almost everyone's asleep within minutes.

It's Parker's turn at watch. She keeps an eye on things while everyone settles in, and does one walkaround, getting the lay of the land. She's halfway around before she realizes Jarod is walking next to her. He's a ghost; not a twig cracks underneath his feet.

He nods at a fallen tree, slightly off to one side of the camp. "That looks good."

He's right, as always, and Parker's surprised to realize she's not annoyed. She would have been, before. He'd infuriated her, then-- always right, always so damn smart.

Parker does a quick check, then heads for the tree, Jarod not leaving her side. "You don't have to stand watch with me, Jarod," she says softly to him as they walk. "You could probably use some sleep."

He shrugs.

As she settles onto the tree, Parker hears someone in one of the tents whimpering; another nightmare. Rodolfo, it sounds like. Jarod listens, head tilted.

"Have _you_ gotten a decent night's sleep since that day?" she asks.

Jarod shakes his head. "I don't think anyone has."

There's a noise in the woods, and they both pause, Parker's hand moving to her gun. It's a small animal, probably, but they wait several moments before relaxing.

"I'm not even sure why we keep watch," Parker finally says. "If the spheres show up, there's not a damn thing we can do."

"You can hope something distracts them."

"They don't seem to be distracted by much." Parker swallows, hard. "They have so much fun killing us."

Jarod shrugs. "You can blow something up. The heat draws their attention, sometimes."

"I really wish aliens had turned out to be a little more like the movies."

"They are. But they're all rated R."

Parker smiles. "I wouldn't mind a G rating, one of these days."

"I think it's going to be a long time before we get that again."

They're quiet for a while. Parker turns her face up to a stray bit of sun that breaks its way through the clouds. Whether the clouds are pollution or weather, they don't know, but sun has become a rare pleasure. Jarod stretches. It's as peaceful as Parker has felt in a very long time.

Parker stands watch for five more hours, and Jarod stays by her side. They talk, sometimes. Safe topics only. How they've survived, mostly. Rumors about the Master and the spheres are ever-popular subjects of conversation; there's almost no official communication outside the remaining cities and the work camps, and bits of information are gold.

He mentions that Martha Jones. Parker cuts him off, changes the subject. There's a rumor that the Master and his metal army aren't completely decimating the jungles. The story goes that there are parts of Mexico and Central America where the terrain makes it impossible to build whatever the hell it is they're working so hard to build. Parker's little group is heading in that direction. Jarod's heard this, too, which either means it's good information or yet another ridiculous delusion created by desperate people looking for hope.

"It's not much," Parker says softly. "But it gives us somewhere to _go_. We can't stop, after all."

Jarod nods. You stop, you either die or get put into a labor camp, and you die there anyway. Starvation, disease, suicide.

"I wonder..." Parker starts, then pauses, shaking her head, trying to clear it. "I don't think I've been able to think straight since then, either."

"It's like my brain is foggy." Jarod picks up a twig from the ground and turns it over in his hands, examining it. "I think there's some kind of low-level telepathic field being broadcast. From the Toclafane, maybe."

"To screw with our minds?"

"I think so." He picks a bit of bark off the twig. "We've both had some experience with mind control. It's an effective way to control the population, and the Master probably has the technology to do it right."

It all makes sense, and Parker feels a wash of relief at having some kind of answer-- however unconfirmed-- for why things have been so muddled. Why it's so hard sometimes to come up with the simplest of plans. Why she's scared, all the time.

Towards the end of their watch, Jarod tells a little of his own story. He's been mostly on his own; he has a few passes that he's forged and uses as he needs to. One piece of information he is sure of is that the spheres don't seem to be in communication with each other over long distances, at least not about minor things like one man with several different names.

He doesn't go into a lot of detail, but at one point he mentions the resistance. Parker laughs.

"What?"

"You really think there's a goddamned thing we can do? We can't shoot them. We can't blow them up." Jarod opens his mouth, and she shakes her head. "We've tried. And trust me-- we weren't using a homemade pipe bomb."

"They're shielded."

"And they're nasty." Parker touches her leg; under the thick denim is one hell of a slice, still healing. "We're just trying to keep moving and not be found."

She wants to ask Jarod where he's going, what he's doing. She knows Jarod, and he has something else in mind. He has a plan, probably complicated and exhausting. But she doesn't have the chance to ask him, then; the camp is stirring. Tim comes out of his tent looking just as tired as he did when he went in. He nods at them, then sets about putting together some kind of meal for the group. Parker has maybe two hours to rest before they get moving again.

She hefts her backpack, her bedroll, going into the tent that Tim just vacated. She doesn't need to look over her shoulder to know that Jarod is following her. When they wake, two hours later, they're tangled together, breathing each other in.

* * *

On the third day Jarod is with them, Rodolfo is killed by two spheres. Well, "killed" is not precise enough. "Tortured" is good. So is "flayed."

His death is deliberate. They get trapped, and he distracts the Toclafane and gives them someone to play with. The rest of the group gets away, Rodolfo's screams providing cover for their escape.

They're a mile away, far enough to count as "safe" (whatever the hell that is), when she finally lets herself think about what happened, about Rodolfo's quick smile as he ran out from their hiding place, drawing the spheres away. She stops, then; she can't quite seem to walk for a few minutes, and she leans against Tim, who just might be shaking harder than she is. Jarod watches them, pale despite the dark tan of his skin, then turns to the group, talking to them, calming them, giving Parker and Tim time to pull it together. Their little band needs the two of them, and needs them clear-headed. They have a lot of ground to cover that day.

* * *

Jarod stays with her for four more days.

* * *

Late afternoon of the third day, they find a creek leading to what is little more than a pond, but it looks like the big blue sea to this group of filthy, smelly, thirsty travelers. They're smart enough to get water to treat for drinking before anyone actually dives in; when they do, none of them want to get out.

Parker thinks nothing has ever felt so good, cloudy as the water is. She goes under, over and over, scrubbing at her scalp in a shampoo-less and probably vain attempt to get the dirt and dust and grease out of her hair.

She's sitting by the pond, finger-combing through her hair, when Jarod joins her. He's just as drenched as she is.

"You look like a drowned rat."

He grins, impossibly wide, and pulls out a comb from who the hell knows where. "You look like you could use this."

"No conditioner hiding anywhere, is there?"

"Sorry." When she reaches for the comb, he shakes his head. "Turn around."

Jarod is gentle with the rat's nest that is currently her hair, and she shuts her eyes as he works carefully through the tangles, section by section. Most of the group is still in the water, and though they're trying to be quiet, there's laughter for the first time in... well, she can't exactly remember the last time anyone laughed. She should warn them, tell them to be quiet, but the warmth of the day and Jarod's hands on her hair and a simple desire to let them laugh keeps Parker from saying anything.

Parker leans her head back into the smooth strokes, putting the inevitable off for just a minute more. She wishes she could just sink into the feeling, his touch, the heavy coolness of her wet clothing and the mud between her toes. If she keeps her eyes closed, will everything else disappear?

No.

It hurts to draw in a deep breath, but she does. "So. Where are you going?"

The combing stops, and for a long moment all she can hear is Jarod breathing. She knows him; he's wondering if he should lie to her, and realizing she'll see through it in a heartbeat.

"I think... I want to find this Martha Jones."

One last knot, and her hair is sleek for the first time in weeks. Jarod's hands smooth it back from her forehead, drawing it to the nape of her neck, and she lets the feel of his hands move through her for one more minute before she sits up, squaring her shoulders, facing him. He's looking at her in the way he used to, like she's something precious and mysterious, and she can't deal with that right now. Like she ever could.

"Maybe she's hanging out with Santa Claus."

Jarod's puzzled. "What?"

"And the Easter Bunny is getting her drunk and trying to cop a feel." He gets it now, but doesn't say anything. "There is no Martha Jones, Jarod. She's something made up by a lot of people who are scared out of their minds."

"I think there is, actually." He pushes at a chunk of dirt with his toe. "I talked to people at the work camps in Ontario that met her. Others, too."

After all this, he is still so trusting. So gullible. If it wasn't so exhausting, it would be fucking adorable. "And what did they say about her?"

He smiles, and something hurts deep in Parker's chest. "They said she's a little thing, younger than us. She's English. One little boy..." He pauses, his forehead crinkling. "One little boy said sometimes she was hard to see."

Oh, Jarod, you'll believe anything if it gives you a bit of hope. "Really."

"Really." He's flushed, with hope or something like it. "They said she told a story..."

Parker wants to listen as he talks; she wants to believe. The way his face lights up, the way he still thinks there's some way out of this nightmare-- it's wonderful and stupid, and she just can't listen to someone this smart who has all his hopes pinned on finding a nonexistent woman who's traveling the world and is hard to see.

He sees her expression, and goes quiet, watching her. It's a minute or two before he talks again, offering her something she can understand. "She has a gun, too. They say it can kill him."

Parker turns away and ties back her hair with a dirty bit of cloth. "There's no goddamn gun, Jarod. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. A gun that can kill the Master? Please." Her voice is tight.

"Why is that so impossible?"

"She'd have _used_ it already, Jarod." She turns around, and can't help but half-smile when she sees his face. "God, you'll believe in _anything_."

"Maybe she just hasn't had the chance to use it. She's traveling, after all."

"Telling her fairy tale to anyone gullible enough to listen to her."

"I don't think it's gullible. I think it's something to believe in." He's flushed, just a little. " _You_ believe that there's safety in Central America."

"I think there _might_ be a place to hide in Central America." She shakes her head. "But only because it gives this group something to do. It gives us a goal."

"You..." His eyes search her face. "You don't think you'll ever get there, do you?"

"Do you expect to live much longer?" He does, she knows; Jarod has always believed in the impossible, and believed in himself. "I think I've already survived a month past my warranty."

"You're a survivor, Parker."

"Yes," she replies. "In a normal world."

"The Centre was normal?" He half-smiles.

Oh, he's making a joke now. Mister Funny. "Compared to this, yes."

"Good point."

They don't talk any more, then, but sit and watch the others. Most are still in the water. Emil's pulled himself out and is on his back on the bank, as if sunning himself on a beach somewhere. Sara's doing a lazy backstroke, avoiding the others. It's idyllic, almost, and a welcome respite from what all of their lives have become.

* * *

Parker wakes before sunrise the next morning-- abruptly, as if an alarm has gone off somewhere. Jarod's already awake, his pack ready to go. He's just sitting, cross-legged, watching her.

In a normal world, there are things you say when you wake up: Good morning. Do you want some coffee? How did you sleep? There's nothing normal any more, though, and she simply pushes her hair back from her face and asks him if he needs any food for his trip.

Jarod shakes his head. "You need all you can spare, Parker. I've got water. I'll be fine." She's sitting up, pulling on layers of clothing still damp from yesterday, not meeting his eyes. "I'll be fine," he repeats.

"You're going on a snipe hunt, Jarod." Her voice is absolutely flat. "And it will get you killed."

"Maybe. But I need to try." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I want to hear her story for myself."

Parker could argue with him-- you can't hear the story if you can't find her. She doesn't exist. There's no point in resisting; all you can do is try to keep your head down and run and maybe there's a tiny patch of green somewhere that the machines aren't steamrolling.

She could tell him all of this, but she knows Jarod, and there's no point in trying.

Jarod's still talking, and she takes a deep breath to calm the roaring in her ears so she can listen. "I'm going to go find her myself and hear what she has to say. If I can hear it from her directly..." He pauses and his eyes search her face. "Then I'll find you."

Her laugh is harsh. "Jarod, you'll never find me again. You know that. If I'm not dead, you will be."

His hand on her hair is so light, so incredibly gentle. "I'll always find you, Parker. You should know that by now."

She shuts her eyes, not wanting to see the expression on his face. "Isn't it supposed to be _you_ run, _I_ chase?"

"The Toclafane stopped that, at least."

"I wish I could thank them."

"I can think of a number of ways to... _thank_ them."

They sit there for several long moments until a noise in the camp brings Parker back to reality. She shakes her head, trying to clear it.

"You could come with me." He stops, sighs. "You won't leave, but I have to ask."

"No." Bizarrely, she's not even tempted by the thought. This is her place, now. "I can't leave these people to go looking for the impossible. They're..."

"They're your responsibility."

"Yes."

He's watching her as if he knows what she's thinking, and he probably does, but he's smart enough not to say anything. He just takes her right hand in his.

In another world, she might be self-conscious. Her nails are ragged and mostly gone, dirt worn into the creases of her skin, and she has almost as many scars-- new and old-- as she has calluses. But Jarod's touch is careful, as if her hands are soft and freshly manicured and still deserving of care.

Jarod turns her hand over in his, and this time she doesn't pull away.

* * *

On purpose, Jarod leaves before most of the group is up for breakfast (a big name for a few spoonfuls of canned soup each). Tim's awake early, as always, and the two men have a short but intense conversation, too far away for Parker to listen in.

When he turns away from Tim and faces Parker, she's watching him. They've said all there is to say; she smiles at him as best she can. When he smiles back, somehow it's the same smile she's seen since they were both children playing games in the basement of the Centre, and her heart aches.

He's on his way out of the camp when Parker speaks. "Hey!" She barely raises her voice, but he hears her and turns. "Where is this magical woman supposed to be?"

He hefts his backpack higher on his shoulder. "I heard she was headed towards Japan."

* * *

Six months and twenty-two days after the world changed, Parker is doing intake on a new refugee. Dan. His story is no different from anyone else's, and Parker is only half-listening. She's had six hours of sleep in the last three days, and Dan's story is less interesting than whatever bits of food might be in his pack.

Until he tells them about what he hears happened in Japan.

No one notices when she slips away, and when she rejoins the group no one notices she was gone. Her jaw is set and she tells Erin she'll take watch that night.

Checking the perimeter, she overhears Dan talking to Tim and some of the others. He's telling that story again, about Martha Jones and some doctor, about believing. The bile rises, and she turns away.

Fairy tales aren't going to save them. The only person she trusts to save anyone-- the only person she's ever trusted-- was probably burned alive in Japan.

It has been six months and twenty-two days, and no one's coming to save her.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Karen and AJ, for many reasons, and for excellent beta.


End file.
